


good pretender

by Encrypt



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror!AU, Fake Marriage, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Fluff, Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, SHEITH - Freeform, Sharing a Bed, Sheithlentines 2019, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Some Humor, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, but keith man you gotta stop calling shiro brother, not unrequited love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-03 16:11:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17880989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Encrypt/pseuds/Encrypt
Summary: Shiro’s had a lot of missions as an Auror, but faking a marriage to his best friend while hunting down a dangerous Dark wizard might be one of Shiro’s most difficult yet.Good thing there’s not much acting involved.“I’m all in,” Keith says, and something lights up inside of Shiro at the way Keith seems to relax, ever so slightly. His smile is bittersweet and wry. “Honestly, I can’t imagine who else I would rather do this with.”Honestly, I can’t imagine who I’d rather be married to,Shiro’s treacherous mind whispers.





	1. house burnt down to the fucking ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kizaten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kizaten/gifts).



> for kizaten! JFKDSL i'm sorry for keeping you waiting for so long, i hope this fits the bill for what your prompt(s) were. holy balls this got wildly out of hand. still sorting out some stuff but i got so antsy so i'm just like fuck it, let's start posting. 
> 
> title from steve aoki and ajr’s “pretender", chapter title from nao’s “make it out alive”.

The world is on fire.

Shiro’s eyes dance golden from the flames, and Keith can’t help but stare back, transfixed and breathless despite himself. His pulse is a roar in his ears, mixing intermittently with the thunder of the blaze.

Even with his face twisted into a murderous snarl and an enchanted metal arm etched with runes of dark magic inches from his face, Shiro is still the most beautiful sight Keith’s ever laid eyes on.

He might be the last thing he ever sees.

Shiro’s arm pushes closer closer _closer_ , silver wreathed in white-hot purple and a shout is torn out of Keith’s throat, his voice lost to the _crackle-pop-_ burst of a timber nearby. His arms are trembling under the force of Shiro’s blow, his hands white-knuckled around his sword, but his face _his face is burning burning_ burning

His wand is too far.

The ground is cold and muddy at his back, and there is nowhere to run.

“Shiro,” Keith says, shuddering and broken. “Shiro, please. You’re my brother.”

He’s frozen to the core and his nerves are shot through with heat but leaving, leaving was never an option.

Shiro’s smile is twisted in the firelight, his face cast into stark relief and his arm presses closer.

The pain flays him to the bone.

“ _I love you_.”

His wand is too far.

Shiro _falters_ , just for a second.

His eyes go shock-wide, storm-grey instead of glinting, sickening violet and a fragile thread of hope Keith didn’t know he was still holding onto pulls taut. Adrenaline jolts through Keith like lightning in his veins, kickstarts his lungs to breathe in ash and soot so hot his throat is seared with agony.

He pushes back with all the strength left in him, wills that there’s magic enough in his sword to not simply shatter under Shiro’s might even as the homicidal glint creeps back into Shiro’s eyes.

“Just let go, Keith.”

_Never._

It’s too far.

“You don’t have to fight anymore.”

His face is burning, burning, burning.

He’s going to die here, under Shiro’s hands.

His wand is _too far –_

\---

_Crack._

Shiro jumps and swears as the scroll hits his desk, spilling an inkpot across the delicate fringe of his favorite quill.

He moves to grab it, cursing again as he leans forward reflexively with the stump at his right shoulder before quickly plucking it from his desk with his left hand.

Allura stands at his door, arm propped lazily against the doorframe. Her hair is striking ice blue today, done up in a neat bun.

“New mission,” she says, grin cheeky and bright, and his stomach does a small swoop in excitement. She steps inside and pulls the door closed against the raucous laughter in the background, where most of the Aurors’ desks are situated. “How’s the new office?”

“As much as I miss the racket out there, it’s nice.” He raises an eyebrow at the slow-moving puddle on his desk. “But it could be nicer.”

She rolls her eyes and lifts her wand, slow and elegant as she sweeps across his desk. “ _Tergeo_.”

It’s not quite pointed at him, but the sight of her wand raised has Shiro on edge, his shoulders tensing, even six months after his retrieval from the hands of Zarkon.

When he looks up at Allura, her smile has faded. “How are you, Shiro?”

There’s a long pregnant pause between the two of them, and Shiro is so, _so_ tempted to brush her off with _I’m fine, everything’s good_ if he weren’t equally certain she would take his head off for the lie.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, honesty sticking heavy in his chest and words. “I know it’s been two weeks since they cleared me for active duty, but sometimes...”

Her brow creases. “Shiro. You didn’t need to return until you were ready. We would have understood. You were captured, forced to fight for your life, sent to battle under Imperius.”

“No.” The sharpness of his own voice cuts him by surprise. “No, I needed to come back. Resting in Japan isn’t what I need right now. There’s so much to do, Allura. So many people lost so much to the war.”

She eyes him for a second, calculating, before she nods once and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding as she settles onto the edge of his desk, silvery-rose robes rippling in the light.

“We’re officially operating at peacetime capacity now. Missions are expected to be slower and less dangerous.” Her voice is almost bland, as she twirls a loose strand of hair around a finger, watching it fade through a myriad of neon colors before she settles for jet black at the ends, like a glacier tipped in nightfall. “They say Zarkon is dead.”

Shiro can’t quite restrain the shudder that runs through him at the mention of the Dark wizard’s name, mind blanking with fear and memories barely held at bay –

 _his arm his arm his_ arm _they took his arm, made him flesh and machine and magic instead_

_‘avada kedavra’ leaves his lips for the first time in the arena, and he is never whole again_

_Keith, bloodstained and pale under him_

_“I love you.”_

He clenches his fist and tries not to balk at the feeling of Keith struggling to breathe under his hands.

“So they say,” he finally breathes out. He finds skepticism mirrored in Allura’s face, but his door is open, there are other ears about, and this is a discussion for another time as she shrugs noncommittally, finally meeting his eyes with piercing blue.

“How’s Keith doing?”

It’s embarrassing how fast his head snaps up at the mention of Keith’s name.

“I. Uh.”

Surprise darts across Allura’s face. “Have you two still not spoken?”

He winces, a brief memory of Keith standing by his hospital bed in the middle of the night flashing across his mind. Keith, who took his hand as he lay feigning sleep, and whispered _welcome back_ against it before brushing fingers against his cheek and disappearing.

His chest aches.

“I – we haven’t talked.” _Couldn’t face him,_ Shiro doesn’t say. _Maybe when I can stop hearing him beg for his life in my dreams._

“Oh.” Her forehead creases, and she frowns, opening her mouth as though to speak before she closes it again, in that way people struggle with secrets between mutual friends.

Not for the first time, hurt blooms in his gut as he realizes that this is one of those things he’s missed in the past year and a half. There are things about Keith now that he no longer knows, and gods, isn’t that a knife to the heart when Keith literally bore him from death’s gates.

He’s not sure he deserves to know.

Allura remains quiet though, and relief swells light and nauseating in his gut. Rising from the edge of his desk, she nods at the scroll. “Read it carefully. It’s enchanted to destruct when you reach the end of the message.”

He looks up as she reaches the door, hand raised in a wave.

But Allura has never afforded him shelter from his own demons.

“Shiro.” She turns back to him, a sad smile on her face. “He missed you terribly. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

He tries to grin back, but it’s hollow at best. “I’ll talk to him soon.”

She leaves, and Shiro watches the door swing shut slowly.

Just not slowly enough for him to miss Keith walking into the common area, newly returned from a mission with nicks singed at the edges through the rolled-up sleeves of his white collared shirt, a tattoo peeking out in stark contrast against his pale skin at his left bicep. A tract of sweat is still running down at his right temple, mile-long legs hugged in tight fitting trousers.

Lance, Pidge, and Hunk are all chattering closely behind him, and what would be annoyance is softened by the upward pull of his mouth at the corners.

His stride has a newfound confidence that Shiro’s rarely seen before, head held high; he can’t hear Keith’s voice, but the look across his face speaks volumes of hard-won self-assurance even as something forlorn dogs his every expression, ages the air about him well beyond his twenty-two years.

Even so, Keith is beautiful, and it makes Shiro’s breath hitch in his throat.

But then Keith turns over his left shoulder to reply to an excited Hunk, and the scar is stark against his pale skin.

Shiro’s blood runs cold.

The door finally shuts. Shiro gives himself a shake, before throwing all his concentration into soundproofing and warding his office, rooting out half the objects in the mostly vacant room before he’s solidly convinced there’s no spying about.

He turns his focus to the scroll.

Maybe a mission is just the distraction he needs.

\---

Ten minutes later, he’s convinced there’s been a terrible mistake.

The scroll erupts into a merry burst of bubblegum pink flame almost as soon as he’s done reading it, mocking him as it curls in on itself in midair. Sparkling golden text lingers in midair, a ghostly glowing quill materializing next to a signature line. _Confirmation of acceptance,_ reads the fine print text below it.

But most damning of all is how the smoke and ashes collapse in on themselves with a small _pop_ into a golden wedding band in midair, clattering onto his desk with a metallic _ring-ring-ringringringring_ in the air before it rolls to a stop.

Ice creeps through Shiro's veins.

He picks it up, horror mounting slowly in his chest. The ring is gorgeous – simple gold, inlaid with a wide band of pitch-black obsidian, swirling, colorful nebulas languidly floating across the swath of darkness. He catches a glimpse of a name he knows almost better than his own, traced into the muck and dirt of a cell repeatedly over a year of dueling for his life in an underground arena, before he closes a shaking hand around the ring.

His heart quakes, and whether in hope or in fear of its truth, he can’t quite tell as they mingle together venomously inside of him.

This is a mistake, no two ways about it. Pidge is a master of charmed objects and forged documents and the entire mission statement smacks of Lance’s humor.

But there’s no mistake in the way his heart kicks up a flutter as his treacherous mind runs endlessly over.

If it’s real, accepting the mission means he marries Keith. Fierce, intelligent, gorgeous Keith, his best friend who he’s been in love with since he set eyes on the spitfire who annihilated his Seeker records at Hogwarts.

It’s for the people. It’s for morale, in the wake of the war that left countless dead and missing at the hands of the pureblood Galra. It’s the closest thing to a modern-day love story the _Daily Prophet_ can get, and the media will take it and run; heroes and brothers-in-arms torn apart by war, only to return to each other.

But mostly, Allura isn’t convinced that Zarkon is dead, and Kolivan of the rebel wizards of Marmora thinks the same.

The logic is _there._ They’re both war heroes now, in their own ways – Shiro surviving a horrifying captivity, Keith an underdog hero who upended Zarkon’s movement with a ragtag team of Aurors who hadn’t yet completed their training.

It’s a power move, designed to bait out a vengeful Dark wizard at his weakest. There’s a part of Shiro that rears its head at the thought of exacting bloody vengeance, angry and hurt and eager to lay blame, but just as quickly guilt rolls sickly through him as the image of Keith standing before him, despairing and weakened flashes back through his head.

Shiro can turn this down. _Keith_ can turn this down, and he has every reason to.

But he looks at the ring, feels every thud of his heart in his chest as he swallows dryly. Tries to picture himself putting it down, walking away, but the light catches the engraving of _Keith_ and he rolls it between his fingers absentmindedly, frowning when Keith’s last name doesn’t quite seem to end.

He sets it on his desk

_“Lumos.”_

Engraved in full is _Keith Kogane-Shirogane_ on the inside of the ring, bright and clear as day under the light of his wand, and his breath catches in his throat.

Hope thrums through him, alien and terrifying in a way that threatens to undo him at the seams.

If even for a moment, if even for a farce, he and Keith could be _real._

For the first time in a year, he dares to hope.

He signs the contract in midair before he can stop himself and watches it glow hotly before it fades, and tells himself to not be disappointed, either when the mission is proven false or when Keith doesn’t agree to it.

But he can’t help but picture Keith’s smile, relieved and beatific as Shiro finally, _finally_ wakes to the safety and warmth of Keith’s arms around him after a year imprisoned, and his pulse skips a beat.

_It’s just another mission._

\---

One long week of being subjected to mere glimpses of Keith in the Aurors’ office space later, Shiro arrives at a nondescript apartment with a briefcase in hand, unable to stop his mind from tumbling end over end of his thoughts.

These are the things that Shiro knows.

He knows every hidden passageway down to the kitchens of Hogwarts. He knows Herbology was his favorite class, even if he was best at Defense Against the Dark Arts. He knows he joined the Aurors because it gave him a sense of purpose helping others. He knows he can throw a punch as well as he can cast a spell. He’s killed a man for his own survival, watched him bleed out and curse him on his last breath.

He knows what it’s like to be ripped from the Imperius Curse and realize he’s nearly murdered his best friend.

And yet, Keith has always found him with willpower indomitable and unmoving, ripped him from the hands of one of the greatest evils of wizardkind. Keith has known him at his greatest of greats and his lowest of lows.

And yet.

He does not know what to do faced with the sight of the single, king-sized bed, married unceremoniously to the love of his young life.

It’s daunting in a way he didn’t expect, and a memory washes over him unbidden.

 _His N.E.W.T.S. are tomorrow – so late they’re_ today _now – but Shiro can’t quite get his brain to shut down, running endlessly over potion ingredients in his head._

_Restless, he heads down the stairs from the fifth-years’ sleeping quarters to the Gryffindor common room when he notices a familiar head of messy, dark hair, turned towards the fireplace._

_Something pulls in his chest._

_“Keith?”_

_His head snaps back towards Shiro, hands flying up defensively before they drop and his eyes go soft in recognition. A rush of protectiveness cuts through the haze of Shiro’s brain._

_“Hey,” he says easily. “Can’t sleep?”_

_“Yeah,” Keith says after a beat of silence. He shifts over wordlessly to make room for Shiro in front of the fireplace, and he takes it without question._

_“Want to talk about it?” He’s learned over the years that it’s best to be direct, best to not dance around the subject long enough that Keith can run from it._

_Keith hesitates again. “Not yet. I’m just – really tired, Shiro.” He narrows his eyes. “Don’t you have your exams tomorrow? Go back to bed.”_

_“Yeah, but I can’t sleep either.” Keith grumbles as Shiro wraps an arm around his shoulder, but he leans in, savoring momentary comfort._

_He settles his head against Shiro, and they both stare into the crackling flames, peaceful silence between them._

_Then, quietly. “It was my dad. I keep closing my eyes and all I see is him running back into the fire, Shiro.”_

_He feels more than sees Keith’s hands fist into the loose flannel of his pajamas, and the silence is heavy as Shiro wraps his left arm around Keith’s slender shoulders, right hand rubbing soothing circles into Keith’s bicep as he breathes in deep and slow, as if willing himself not to fly apart._

_Ten minutes pass like this before a soft snore reaches his left ear, and he can’t help but look down in surprise, Keith’s eyelashes fluttering shadows from the firelight. He slips a bit off Shiro’s shoulder, sleepily nuzzling at Shiro’s shirt in a way that warms him deep._

_He smiles, heart soaring despite himself as the image of Keith asleep, pressed against his side, drooling across a piece of parchment paper only yesterday surfaces in his mind._

_“What’s with you and dozing off around me, kiddo?”_

_“Mm. Safe.” Keith yawns suddenly, gloriously unaware of how his answer sends Shiro’s heart flip-flopping in his chest even as his exam-riddled mind leaps bounds ahead of him._

_Safe. How had he not thought of this before?_

_“Sleep with me,” Shiro blurts out, and his face goes hotter than the fire and Keith blinks awake blearily, dumbfounded. There’s a blush splashed across Keith’s cheeks, but whether from Shiro or the flames, Shiro’s not sure._

_“What,” Keith says, disbelief laced into his voice, and Shiro’s mind_ screams _at him._

_“Not like that – I mean, you don’t have to, but Matt’s the only one in, he won’t mind, everyone else is pulling an all-nighter and you need sleep and I need to make sure I don’t miss my N.E.W.T.S. and I just – “_

_Keith snorts, more awake now as violet eyes finally settle on him in amusement, and relief swirls cool and heady through Shiro’s chest. “What am I, your glorified alarm clock?”_

_“What else do I need my vice-captain for,” Shiro says, deadpan, and Keith rolls his eyes. Shiro stands up, feeling oddly heady as he reaches out and Keith takes his hand. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”_

_“That sounds so weird,” Keith mutters, and Shiro elbows him in the ribs as they make their way towards the stairs._

_“It’s only weird if you make it weird.”_

_He wakes next morning earlier than he needs to, to Keith sound asleep, slack-jawed and face more peaceful than Shiro’s ever seen him._

_Shiro reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair out of Keith’s face, heart in his throat._

_Safe. Keith thinks he’s safe. It’s precious and fragile and god, Shiro will do anything to be worthy of that._

_He’s almost late to his exams._

It’s violent, how Keith’s face begging _Shiro, you’re my brother, I love you_ tears into his mind abruptly. He bites his lip almost hard enough to draw blood as he inhales slowly, turns away to drop his bag onto a desk before stepping to the window and looking out.

The apartment is on the top floor, tucked away in a bustling town just quiet enough to hear himself think, but loud enough that silence was a rare companion. Behind them are rolling, wooded hills; there’s a hint of salt in the air, just the barest tell of the ocean. If he listens long enough, he thinks he can hear the gulls crying out, sorrowful and longing. He draws back the curtains, goosebumps prickling the back of his neck.

The paranoia will take time to deal with. He’s already compiling a mental list of additional wards to cast on the residence.

The front door opens quietly, just slightest creak of a hinge, but it’s enough to send Shiro whirling around, blood rushing thunderous in his ears and wand at the ready as his mind whispers _danger fight enemy attack_.

“Shiro?”

The sound of Keith’s voice washes over him and the adrenaline drains out of him, leaving him weak-kneed and somehow no less fearful. Something hits the floor with a thud – a trunk, maybe? – before footsteps, hesitant, cautious, come nearer down the short hallway.

“Shiro?” Uncertainty is finely laced into his voice in a way that pulls at the tendril of a memory, and Shiro tamps down the echo of a nightmare or ten.

Shiro moves away from the window, feet carrying him towards the doorway, like the gravity of Keith’s presence is too much for him to not fall instantly into orbit.

Keith steps into the doorway, wand raised, and their eyes meet.

“Shiro,” Keith says again, purple eyes widening, and it cuts Shiro to the quick, the way he says Shiro’s name like it means _everything._ His heart stutters in his chest.

There’s a moment of stillness, where Shiro can’t help but finally really _look_ at Keith. Look over the way his shoulders have broadened, how his chest tapers to his waist under the leather jacket he wears, the way something forlorn settles about him like a cloak and pulls at Shiro’s heartstrings. He’s different, but no less beautiful, like he’s finally settled into his own skin and it’s magnetizing. But.

He looks like he’s mourning, in some bone-deep, unspeakable way.

He tries not to look at the scar, Keith’s wide purple eyes too reminiscent of the precious few memories afforded to him in the explosive final battle that ultimately led to Zarkon’s disappearance.

He’s uncomfortably aware of how Keith searches him, too, and tries not to curl in on himself. Shiro knows he must be quite the sight, sleeve pinned up at his right side, pale scars across his arms, his hands, silvery slivers across his neck. One skates under his jaw nearly ending at his jugular, to say nothing of the slash clean through the bridge of his nose.

He’s not broken, but it’s a near thing, and he feels in pieces next to Keith, who radiates warmth and fire and everything Shiro’s ever craved in his life even as Shiro lays ruin to all he touches.

Shiro moves forward and Keith almost seems to flinch, stilling before he schools his features and deliberately drops his wand arm.

Bile rises in Shiro’s throat and he stops short, sickened.

The scar across Keith’s cheek is further proof of his failings.

“So you got it too?” Keith’s voice is lower than he remembers, melodious in Shiro’s ears.

Shiro’s too caught up in the sound to realize that he’s spoken for a moment.

“Yeah,” Shiro finally says. “Yeah, I did.”

“Are we sure it wasn’t Lance?” Keith says, and Shiro can’t help but laugh weakly.

“Thought it was Pidge. You?”

“Not sure. But Kolivan’s seal is hard to miss.” Keith says _Kolivan_ with a sort of undeniable fondness, and Shiro feels out of touch, out of step again. He knows _of_ Kolivan, knows Keith spent some time with a rebel faction of Galra wizards, knows him from debriefing and intel, scowling back at him through pictures and distinctly unwelcoming, but Keith sounds exasperated more than intimidated and there are _so many questions_.

The sudden silence between them is loud.

“So are you – “

“Are you going to – “

They stop short, and whatever eggshells Shiro’s been treading on have already been firmly ground to dust.

“You first,” Keith says, somehow unexpectedly, and Shiro’s not used to this, not used to a Keith he can’t quite read, like a house where all the furniture’s the same but everything’s been shifted two inches to the right.

“If it’s real,” Shiro starts slowly, every word a step closer to a precipice. “I’m in. You?”

“I’m all in,” Keith says, and something lights up inside of Shiro at the way Keith seems to relax, ever so slightly. His smile is bittersweet and wry. “Honestly, I can’t imagine who else I would rather do this with.”

 _Honestly, I can’t imagine who I’d rather be married to,_ Shiro’s treacherous mind whispers.

Keith stops short, and for a mortifying second Shiro thinks he’s spoken aloud before he realizes he’s looking for something. He pulls a tiny object out from the inner pocket of his jacket, close to his chest. Shiro’s so smitten by the sight of him that he nearly misses the silver twin to his ring between Keith’s thumb and forefinger, held up accusingly before his face even as he watches a binary star system spiral and collide within the inlay.

Fumbling, he pulls out his ring, watches Keith flicker eyes to it, unreadable expression across his face.

“I like the name. A lot of syllables, though,” Shiro says in a weak attempt at humor, and Keith nods curt acknowledgement, lips thin, half-paying attention.

Keith’s gaze has drifted to the bed, and the bereft look to his face has draped back over him.

“It’s only one bed?”

“I, ah. Yeah.” Something flashes across Keith’s face, too fast for Shiro to identify.

“I can take the couch,” Keith says, and before Shiro can protest he’s whisked off down the hallway to the common area.

He looks surprised that Shiro’s followed him, lips parted slightly.

“How’s the promotion?” Keith says, as he reaches into his trunk.

“Don’t really feel like I did much to earn it,” he says dryly, surprised when Keith turns to him like a whirlwind, familiar ferocity in his eyes.

“Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“ _That_. You just.” Keith nearly growls in frustration, and this is finally familiar ground for Shiro, Keith struggling for words to exact his meaning, fists clenching at his side as he bites the inside of his cheek.

“You always think you don’t deserve things, Shiro,” he finally says, guarded eyes scrutinizing Shiro’s face. “Why?”

It’s not the first time Keith’s struck him dumb with his candidness, but it doesn’t leave Shiro feeling any less vulnerable, any less transparent to Keith.

He wants to run his fingers over Keith’s cheek, tracing the scar he put there and say _this, this is why._

“I think we need to talk about the mission,” Shiro breathes instead, and Keith looks at him sharply, almost wounded before visibly shuttering closed, face strangely neutral.

“We’re married, Keith. This is our _job_ ,” and it shouldn’t hurt this much to say it like this, say it like it’s nothing more than a distraction, but it lays him bare and knocks the rest of the breath from his lungs. “We’ll be expected to act a certain way, do certain things. We need people to believe this, _Zarkon_ to believe this.”

“Like what?” Keith’s voice is guarded, dangerous somehow.

“Like dates,” he says, wishes masquerading as strategy in the air. “Like holding hands.”

And then, before he can quite stop himself, “Like kissing.”

“Shiro,” Keith says, and there it is again, gravity and stars in his name all at once, in a way Shiro does not deserve. It’s gut-churning when Keith finally turns to look back at him, a half-folded rumpled shirt in his hands. There’s fatigue etched into the shadows of his face, and Shiro thinks _too far, too far, I’ve gone too far_ as Keith takes another step forward, like he’s about to take a swing if not for the rumpled shirt still clutched in his hands.

“How,” he breathes, low and dangerous. “How are we supposed to do that, exactly?”

Shiro’s heart is being weighed against a feather, and he’s been found _lacking_ in the face of Keith’s ferocity.

“Can’t we just be us again, first?” Keith sets the shirt aside, stepping forward into Shiro’s space and sending Shiro’s pulse racing. “I missed you, Shiro,” he says, voice frayed.

“I’m right here,” Shiro blurts out, but Keith shakes his head helplessly, _no_ perched soundlessly on his lips and it dawns on Shiro, awful and horrifying.

“ _I’m_ right here, Shiro.” Keith’s eyes rove across his face, desperate and lost. “I still miss you.”

Shiro flinches.

He knows how many nights Keith has spent sleepless at St. Mungo’s by his bedside, pleading for his recovery while Shiro lay feigning sleep, knows how many owls Keith has sent. Keith’s beloved owl Red had flung stones at the window of his ancestral home in Japan, screaming shrilly for him to open them up and answer Keith’s messages.

He couldn’t. Wouldn’t, when all he could hear was Keith begging for his life in his ears, even as koi fish older than him plucked insects from the water’s surface, oblivious to his ruin above their undisturbed pond. Keith is star-shine brilliant and Shiro, Shiro is no longer who he once was.

There was only so much enforced leave and therapy could do.

It’s devastating, hearing the words fall from Keith’s mouth, framed by a wound that Shiro had carved there himself.

“We don’t talk anymore,” Keith whispers, and Shiro tightens his grip on Keith’s hand, marveling at how his fingers meet just under Keith’s knuckles.

“Keith, I’m sorry,” he says, but Keith is shaking his head again.

“I’m not angry, Shiro. I was never mad at you.”

He’s close, so close Shiro can feel Keith’s breath ghost across his face.

“I just want you to know you’re not alone,” Keith says, and a knife-sharp pang shoots through him. “I’m here, if you want me.”

And he does, god he does, but to keep Keith too close is to watch him burn alive again.

Even so, he feels drawn to Keith, drawn to the halcyon haven he finds in him as he automatically leans forward, Keith’s startled eyes meeting his.

“I want you here, Keith,” he says quietly, wants to say _I’ll always want you here,_ feels a knot in his chest loosen when relief flashes palpable in Keith’s eyes. “How couldn’t I? You saved me.”

Keith’s eyes are haunted still, and Shiro’s breath catches as he realizes they’re mere inches from each other’s faces.

“Let’s be us first,” Shiro says, and it feels like a promise.

Keith’s gotten taller, slender build lean with muscle, and Shiro would only need to tip his head down to meet his lips. Would only need to tip his head down to potentially destroy anything that had ever existed between the two of them.

_You’re my brother. I love you._

He draws away sharply, pulling his hand from Keith’s, disappointment prickling in his gut as he forces himself to sound normal.

“We should wear these,” he says, rolling his ring between thumb and forefinger. “For the mission.”

“Right. For the mission,” Keith says flatly, all sharp utilitarian edges in his voice even as he slips on the ring.

He tries to look at Keith, see where this sudden rawness came from, but Keith won’t quite meet his eyes.

Keith hesitates, finally looking up at Shiro with uncertainty that takes him back to Quidditch trials when Keith was a tiny slip of a boy with a secondhand broom.

“Can we take this slow?”

 _Anything,_ Shiro thinks. _Anything for you._

“Yeah,” he says instead, and Keith seems to ease at that.

“I have some time,” Shiro says in a rush, before he can lose his nerve entirely. “If you want to go grab a coffee or something.”

“I, uh. I have a mission.” Keith’s face is red, and once, once that meant he was lying, but Shiro’s not quite certain of anything anymore, not even the ground under his feet.

Shiro hopes his face doesn’t fall as he goes, “Oh. Right. Okay. I guess – I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, after a long, sputtering silence, heading back towards the door.

The sight of him turning his back unsettles Shiro, enough that he nearly reaches out back towards Keith before stopping himself, half-step forward. He gathers enough in him to turn towards the bedroom, trying to funnel his thoughts towards some semblance of the mundane task of unpacking.

“Shiro.” He turns back, throat tight with some emotion he can’t quite place.

Keith’s eyes are on him, brimming with an intensity that threatens to send him sprawling to the floor. “It’s good to have you back.”

He’d nearly forgotten how Keith’ frankness left him speechless, tore him up and scrubbed him raw of all his pretense.

“It’s good to be back,” he says, and Keith smiles and it finally, _finally_ reaches his eyes. For a moment the weight on his shoulders seems to lift, and the air seems to lighten a touch.

Keith waves once, moment broken, and steps through.

He watches the door close behind Keith and wonders how he’d let the distance between them grow so large.

\---

Thace’s Pub is grimy, busy with patrons even as Keith nurses a glass of knotgrass mead, perched languidly at the bar. The ring is safely ensconced in a jacket pocket near his chest, ready to be worn – or destroyed, depending on the outcome of tonight.

It’s been a favorite haunt of his ever since his time with the Blades – intel and rumors trickle as fast as the liquor flows, and wizards and Muggles alike pass through these doors. Here he sheds everything he’s become in the past few months since Zarkon’s disappearance.

Here he’s not a half-blood mongrel of a family branch blasted from the infamous Galra family tapestry, nor the rogue Auror who recovered the lead Auror of their time and ended a four years’ long war in one fell swoop.

Right now, he’s just Keith, married to the man he’s in love with for the sake of a mission, and all of it out of his control.

Zarkon’s disappearance is suddenly a far easier topic to tackle.

Disappearance, because death makes him scoff into his drink. Disappearance, because quiet does not mean peace, and that fool of a Minister of Magic can’t be bothered to verify a death before claiming it as a victory under his time. For once in his life, he can agree with the knucklehead seer Slav (Keith is convinced he works for the Department of Mysteries, as much as he continuously claims to be part of the Ministry’s financial department) that Zarkon’s survival is far more likely than not.

He’s not convinced this mission isn’t a trap of some sort.

His fingers curl around the glass when a distinctly unfamiliar face dips through the ratty veil separating the back of the bar from the raucous activity up front.

Her face is nondescript, familiar enough to draw a second look, but somehow just average enough to not warrant a third. Her black hair is pixie-short, parted and combed over. She settles a few barstools down from him at the bar, drawls, “Whiskey. Single-malt,” at the bartender as she delicately clicks Sickles down onto the sweet-sticky counter.

The barkeep pours one with hardly a glance, slams it down before her so it sloshes down the sides. Keith lets out a low whistle, and she looks at him pointedly before making her way to a secluded booth in the corner.

He downs the rest of his drink before ambling after her.

The leather seats of the enclosed booth crackle under his hands even as they slide across it nearly to face each other, leaning in closer. Under his breath he utters a charm that ripples across the air, so anyone who looks at the booth only sees him and the girl flirting animatedly.

In reality, he flicks his wrist and his knife is out, pressed dangerously just under her sternum.

Her eyes widen, before narrowing at him. He doesn’t need to look to know her wand is pressed just against the base of his throat, ready to blast his head off. She’s fast, and he knows that almost better than anyone else.

“Fair game, Kogane,” Allura says from the face of a stranger. “What _ever_ did you call me out here for?”

“Old habits die hard,” he says, keeps his eyes steady on her face, searching for any giveaway that this is a Dark wizard using Polyjuice instead of Allura’s Metamorphmagus abilities. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re still at war. I don’t care if someone’s trying to mess with me, but Shiro is out of the question. Prove to me you’re Allura.”

She clenches her jaw. “When I found out you were half-blood Galra, I called you a murderer and blood-traitor before I punched you. I took the Portkey and left you in an alleyway with a broken nose.”

Regret is splashed across her face, but she prods him insistently with the tip of her wand.

“When Shiro was still recovering, I snuck into St. Mungo’s to see him and you caught me. Instead of kicking me out, you charmed the entrance with an alarm so I could avoid the night nurses.” His scowl goes crooked, emotion creeping into his voice. “I don’t think I thanked you enough for that.”

Her mouth quivers at the corners. “I asked a favor from you after you saved my life, and you took it before I could even apologize. I think I’m the one still in your debt, Keith.”

He shakes his head, but she eases her wand down to rest a hand on his, regret skirting across her delicate features. “I’m sorry, Keith. I failed you dearly as a friend.”

“It’s okay.” His throat tightens. “I didn’t really give you a reason to be one.”

A sudden wave of tiredness washes over him as he scrubs the back of his hand across his eyes, plucks the ring from his jacket.

“Was this your plan, Allura?”

She looks at him for a moment, before nodding, resigned.

“So it’s real,” Keith says, and tries to pretend his voice isn’t trembling. He looks back at Allura, unsure how to respond now as the reality of the mission sinks in. “I’m really married. To Shiro. This isn’t just a sick joke.”

His chest aches at the thought, shoves down the memory of being tucked under Shiro’s arm, deep laughter booming against his chest after Gryffindor’s Quidditch victories; sunset flights on broomsticks over the lake at Hogwarts; sleepless nights out of his mind, desperate for a hint of Shiro’s survival in the darkness of war.

“Yes.” Her adopted face goes troubled the same way she does, tight at the corners of her eyes and lips thin. “I’m sorry, Keith. I did not mean to make light of this for you.”

“It’s alright,” he says, voice steeped in exhaustion, just barely refraining from parroting _knowledge or death_. “We need to find Zarkon. We have to make him pay for what he’s done, and stop him from whatever he’s about to do.”

“Keith, you don’t have to take the mission.”

“Yes, I do,” he says sharply, startling both of them. He swallows. “I do, Allura. We know Zarkon’s waiting. This is our best chance, right?”

A heartbeat passes. “Yes,” she finally says, tipping her glass so the whiskey stones slide down with a _clink_. “He’s weak, and he’s angry. He’s never taken slights to his power well. You hurt him badly, and Shiro was meant to be his greatest weapon.” Her eyes glint in the low flickering candlelight above them. “He’ll be after you both.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He scowls, fingers the elegant curve of his blade in its sheath against his hip before dropping his voice. “I just – Allura, I can’t lose him. Not again.”

His next words are halting, because Shiro, Shiro is his strength and weakness, Achilles’ heel and armor all at once. “I’ll do anything to keep him safe.”

She looks at him over her glass. “So you accept?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking up fiercely at her. “I won’t let anyone hurt Shiro again, Allura.”

 _Not even myself,_ a voice in the back of his mind whispers, and he resists the urge to pass fingers over the scar on his face, still hears the echoing cry of pain as Shiro’s cursed arm is sheared off by his blade.

“It’s just a mission, right?” He hates how he sounds like he’s been torn open.

“Yes.” Her voice is so weary that if he closes his eyes long enough, it’s a year ago and they’re sitting next to each other in the midst of war, on the brink of defeat, no sign of Shiro and the continent’s death counter rising by the day. “Just another mission.”

The silver wedding band in the pocket of his jacket is leaden against his heart.


	2. they made a monster out of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro’s got some demons to deal with. Keith is stubborn. They make it work, somehow.
>
>> "Wait, wait, wait just a second now." Lance snatches Shiro's wrist up, twists gently so the light catches the ring accusingly.  
> He lets out a whoop.  
> Shiro's heart stops.  
> He can't help but glance at Keith, who's gone stock still, parchment crumpling in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: shiro has a panic attack in this chapter, starting around "He's not sure what to expect..." and ending at "They exit into the overcast London day...", and his memories of losing his arm (while not too graphic) are in the following scene as well. please read with this in mind.

It’s approximately three days into their mission when the rest of their friends finally notice.

He’s sitting next to Pidge at her desk, trying to avoid the pedestal his new office has bestowed on him, and frankly he missed the chatter of the shared Auror commune, owls swooping overhead with mail and messages.

Shiro’s nearly midway through a written debrief about the capture of a thief who’s been stealing portraits of renowned wizards (foolish, really, considering one of them had another portrait _inside the Ministry_ ) when he yawns, head tipping forward before he snaps upright, blinking sleepily. He swears, hoping no one notices.

Pidge snickers outright, though, and he has to fight back a groan. The paperwork is always the worst part.

"We've got another one, guys." Keith appears behind Shiro suddenly, dropping scrolls one after another onto Pidge and Hunk's desks.

"Oh boy," Hunk says, breaking the seal as he stands to follow Keith into one of the side conference rooms. Pidge pushes her chair back with a clatter, and Shiro gratefully packs away the report of the art thief for later as they fall in line after Keith. "More of those crystals?"

"Great, I love magical rocks," Lance says dully. Keith grits his teeth, flicks his wand so Lance's missive smacks him dead center in the forehead.

"Ow! Was that necessary?"

"Nope," Keith agrees, before he takes his place at the end of a long wooden table and rolls out another scroll of a blueprint, tidily notated. "Warehouse running illegal operations. Intel says there's some weird fluctuation in magic going on inside the facility. It's our third one in the last month."

Keith sweeps his wand over the scroll, and a ghostly image of the warehouse rises into the air, rotating slowly, miniature crows even cawing from the trees around it.

He taps the table, contemplative. "I think something is going on."

"What, like people need new things to try and experiment with? Can't we get a two-headed dragon once in a while or something?"

"No, like this is weird. It's not the first time we've seen this." Pidge hums.

"We're just here for recon, guys. Lance, you're with me. We'll be covering Hunk and Pidge. In and out, no disturbances if possible. If it looks like things are going to go downhill, get out. Shiro will be outside giving us updates, and heavy combat backup if anything goes wrong."

He turns. "Shiro, you're senior advisor here. Anything to add?"

Shiro shakes his head. "I agree with Keith. Stay alert, but don't rush things. Sounds like there might be a bigger operation going on here than we realized."

Keith nods at him before turning back to his team. "You all have your assignments. Be careful out when we get out there. I know it's been quiet for everyone but that doesn't mean we shouldn't stay alert.”

Hunk waves him off. "It's just more illegal paraphernalia, Keith. Typical warehouse raid. We'll be okay."

"Why can't we get another fun mission?" Lance grumbles, scanning the decidedly concise missive on the table before him. Blue hops onto his shoulder, shreeing as he scoffs and ruffles her feathers.

"Last time we got something we'd call fun we had a full-blown war on our doorstep," Pidge says tartly, elbowing Lance in the ribs as he reaches for the parchment and sends Blue hooting with annoyance into the air, beak clacking as she settles next to a dozing Rover, who opens one golden eye balefully. "Careful what you wish for."

"Hey." The sound of Keith's voice from the end of the table makes them all look up, and Shiro can't quite help the small thrill that rolls through him from seeing Keith like this, shoulders square, jaw set with determination. "We've got a job to do, guys. People need us, even if it doesn't always mean saving lives anymore. You're dismissed. Meet at the Portkey location at 2200 hours on the day of. We have two more weeks to gather intel, so keep each other posted."

Shiro moves to stand, placing his palm flat against the table.

"Wait, wait, wait just a second now." Lance snatches Shiro's wrist up, twists gently so the light catches the ring accusingly.

He lets out a whoop.

Shiro's heart stops.

He can't help but glance at Keith, who's gone stock still, parchment crumpling in his hands.

"I – " he starts weakly, unsure whether to deflect or confirm in the face of Keith's apparent anger.

"Holy crow, are you guys married?" Lance lets out a huff, and his words hit Shiro like a pile of bricks because _he is married to Keith and now the world is going to know._ "Why didn't you guys tell us?"

"What are you – "

"Nope. Do _not_ even try to deny it, I saw yours when you were handing out the intel, Keith." Hunk nods, eyes sparkling, and Pidge's face is as smug as can be.

"Pay up, boys."

"What," Keith says, scandal lining his voice. "'Pay up?'"

"You two," Lance shakes his head, and Shiro somehow feels like he's the last in on an inside joke here. "You two have been dancing around since Hogwarts and _now_ is when you decide to get together. Unbelievable."

Hunk holds up a finger. "I, for one, thought it was going to be a couple more years."

Shiro wants to laugh hysterically even as his gut churns, panic blooming wildly inside of him because god, has he been that obvious for that long?

Keith's face is a thunderstorm, and Shiro keeps sinking, sinking, sinking.

Keith knows. Keith knows now, and he'll hate him, because he sees Shiro as a brother, a safe place, his best friend.

They could have been, maybe. Maybe if Shiro had made his feelings clearer earlier. Maybe if _Shiro_ had known himself earlier, earlier than on the ground of a prison cell, because the worst part is, none of those is a lie. Keith is all those things to him.

The thing is, Keith is more. He's _everything_ to Shiro, and hurting him is a prospect he can't stand to think of, and if Keith thinks he’s been led on, that Shiro’s _lied_ to him, Shiro doesn’t want to imagine the possible consequences.

"Seriously, why didn't you guys tell us? Did you have a wedding, too? I've been gunning to be your best man for _years_ , Keith, do not fucking tell me you just went and – "

"Stop," Keith says, and it's not a shout but it quiets everyone all the same, Shiro half-expecting Keith to bolt.

"No, there hasn't been a wedding, and yeah, we're married. I'm married, to Shiro." His voice is sharp and he says it like a challenge, shoulders tense, spine ramrod straight. "If anyone has a problem with that, come to me."

For a moment, Shiro's stunned senseless by Keith's blunt honesty. There's not a hint of a hesitation in the way he stands, not a hint of uncertainty or unease in the way he says it. Defensive, but not angry, not by miles. Whatever shadow seemed to follow him the previous day has left him in this moment.

Warmth and yearning ebb through him in vicious waves, and Shiro wonders what it'd be like to hear those words without a mission hanging over their heads.

There's a couple moments of silence where Shiro's unsure if he should take his hand back, still cradled in Lance's, Keith still with his hackles raised.

Lance huffs through his teeth, and the tension breaks. “Dude, I’m not bitching about your marriage. I’m talking about the _wedding_. By all means, just don’t subject the rest of us to your lovey-dovey bullshit.”

Hunk shrugs. "You've loved each other for years. There's nothing new here except for a couple of rings."

"Yeah. Nothing new," Keith says, easy like breathing even as Shiro's heart leaps in his chest. "Now can we get back to business?"

"Yeah, but first, congratulations," Lance says, eyes serious now as he finally gives Shiro his hand back before clapping him on the shoulder. "Seriously, I'm happy for you guys."

They clear out from the room, leaving Shiro and Keith looking everywhere but at each other for a moment.

"Keith," Shiro finally says. "You didn't have to - "

"Yeah. Yeah, I did, Shiro." The relief leaves Shiro almost lightheaded. Keith's earnest now, eyes softening before turning concerned. "Was that too much?"

"No. Never," Shiro says before he can stop himself, too much of himself in his words, and Keith finally, finally relaxes. "No, I'm really glad you said that."

Keith hesitates, before surprising Shiro for the second time by setting his hand atop Shiro's so their rings clink together and Shiro hopes the hammering of his heart isn't as loud as it sounds to him. Keith's hand is calloused, warm across the back of his hand in a way that seems to seep into his bones.

"Thank you," Shiro says quietly, and means it for everything.

Keith smiles, small but poignant, and they stand for a moment, facing each other. This close, Shiro can see the light shadow of stubble on Keith's jaw, and his mind marvels for a moment at how it might feel against his jaw.

"You knew Keith and Shiro were married?" Lance's voice is an ear-splitting shriek from the direction of Allura's office, sending an overexcited Pygmy Owl and a scarred, ragged old Great Horned hooting dolefully past the door of the conference room. Shiro jumps, and the moment is broken as Keith scrubs a hand across the nape of his neck and exits the room with a quick glance and a wave back.

 _So much for going slow,_ Shiro thinks, but the ghost of Keith's fingertips across his skin lingers for the rest of the day.

 

\---

 

For a couple of weeks, Keith still sleeps on the couch. Shiro awakes alone to his nightmares, bed creaking as he thrashes himself conscious and walks to the door to peer out through the crack and check that Keith is there, breathing, _alive._

A week in, they make it to the door at the same time in the morning, sheepish and rueful as they reach for the knob together, brushing fingers.

They go to work together that day.

And the next. And then every day after.

Sometimes, Shiro lets himself lay a hand on Keith’s shoulder, just for a second as they quietly go over mission reports, standing over Keith’s desk.

Sometimes, he lingers.

Keith lets him.

It’s so small, but it’s enough. For now.

 

\---

 

Things seem to be moving along just fine, until Hunk and Pidge accost him a couple of mornings before their warehouse raid and pull him aside into the Subdivision of Magical Artefacts.

"Come on," Pidge says impatiently, tugging him along by one hand. "I know you're a crazy prodigy wizard and all, but we thought you might want to consider an upgrade now that you're returning to active duty. It's totally up to you, though."

He catches Keith's eye at his desk, and Keith half-rises before Shiro shakes his head and he lowers himself back slowly into his seat, concern in his eyes.

He can handle this, whatever this is.

He's not sure what to expect, until Pidge pulls off a sheet amongst the noisy, gear-ridden objects, skittering across her desk so one chatters in a high, tiny voice, apparently enraged at its displacement.

Underneath it is a new, glistening metal arm, and his mind stutters to a stop.

Hunk and Pidge are talking excitedly, oblivious to the way adrenaline shoots through him, his pulse a deafening roar in his ears.

_His arm his arm they took his arm it’s not a part of him any more why does it hurt why is it there when it’s not on him anymore_

"Shiro?"

_it's gone it's gone they took it they took it_

"Shiro?"

 _it burns it burns it_ burns

 _screaming, screaming all around him or is it_ from _him_

_"Shiro. You’re my brother. I love you."_

Something _someone_ grabs him by the shoulder and he whirls, dropping to the ground in a swift kick as he hears a sharp shout and a crash, reaching for his wand, instincts screaming _attack disable kill_ as he levels it at the chest of his attacker, a spell perched on his lips because whoever casts first lives –

Instead he finds fingers skating along his wrist, soft and so jarringly gentle that he snaps back to himself with a gasp. His wand is gripped white-knuckled in his left hand, Keith's warm fingers loose around Shiro's forearm even as his wand points at Keith's heart.

_Fuck._

His senses come back to him in patches as he takes in the sight before him, Keith's own wand is gripped in his left hand, pointed – behind him? His blade is nowhere to be seen.

Keith's eyes are wide, fraught with distress and worry even as he stares back at Shiro, breathing harsh. His eyes flicker down towards the wand before meeting Shiro’s eyes again, still making no other motion to defend himself. Dimly, he can see Hunk and Pidge flanking Keith a short distance back, wands at the ready.

A ghostly shield hangs like fog between them and Keith, and now, _now_ where Keith is pointing makes sense.

The scar is so bright against his face.

Shiro could have killed him, and Keith would have let him.

His wand falls from nerveless fingers and clatters to the ground as he steps back, mindless of the fact that he's knocking Pidge's little gadgets everywhere.

"Shiro," Keith says, pleading as he steps forward, and the sound of his own name spoken with so much naked worry _i could have killed him could have_ killed _him_ leaves him keening, wounded and mournful.

He feels sick. He feels so sick.

A cold sweat breaks out over his skin, and his clothes feel strangely constricting as he tries to breathe. His knees give out as he turns to the side and retches onto the ground.

Instantly, Keith is next to him, flicks his wand with a mutter of " _Episkey_ ," at the splash before skimming fingers against the back of his neck, grounding him even as the world spins, murmuring soothing words into his ear.

Hunk appears with a bucket, Pidge with a glass of water. Keith takes the water, sets it next to him, and Hunk's steady hands take Shiro's numb fingers and wrap them around the rim of the bucket, shamefaced as he apologizes profusely.

"Tell Allura we're taking the rest of the day after this," he dimly hears Keith telling them, and he wants to argue with this, wants to tell Keith desperately he'll be fine, but Keith's fingers dig into a particularly tender spot and he can't find the willpower as he sags sideways into Keith's chest, weakly clutching the bucket as he breathes in Keith's scent, all musk and cedarwood and so, so very much alive. His stomach is still turning dangerously.

“Benefits of being married,” Keith mutters, and if Shiro hadn’t felt so nauseated he would have been shocked. He brings up an arm to pull Shiro against him. "Is this okay?"

Shiro nods, sucking in a relieved breath as Keith tucks his head under his chin and starts rubbing calming circles against Shiro's back with one hand, the other cupped around his face to gently knead fingers into Shiro's temple, steadying pressure grounding him as he tries to calm down, finding gravity in Keith.

Soon Shiro finds himself breathing in time with Keith, unconsciously syncing up every inhale, every exhale as they sit in the quiet, tiny whirring murmurs of gadgets still around them.

At some point he lets go of the bucket, fingers finding purchase in the material of Keith's sleeve.

"Hey," Keith says against the crown of his head, and his warm breath sends a shudder down Shiro's spine. "Do you want to go home?"

Shiro pauses, before mumbling into Keith's shirt, embarrassed at his raw honesty. "Will you stay with me?"

He hates how it curls out of him, childish and small, but Keith's swift _yes_ leaves him feeling safer than he has in a long time.

There's a part of him that says there's work to be done, people to be rescued, _Zarkon to stop_ , but the thought of having Keith next to his side for the rest of the day has him feeling selfish, wanting.

It rises up in him, demanding he take it and run for once in his life.

Too exhausted to argue, Shiro nods again, rising to stand with Keith, clammy fingers clenched death-grip tight in Keith's shirt still.

"I can get us back by Apparating and taking you along, if you feel up to it, but we need to get out of here first."

Shiro clenches his jaw, finally finding his voice as he says, "Okay. Sounds good."

He takes a step forward, only now realizing Keith had a hand at the small of his back and shuddering when the warmth of his hand seeps away, leaving him cold.

As if sensing his distress, Keith steps forward, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Is this okay?"

"Yes," Shiro breathes. Any reminder that he's here and not back there, where the dead and dying reside in purgatory.

Keith walks him quickly through the hallways, ducking from people when he can, glaring when he can't, and Shiro finds comfort in the arm wrapped fiercely around his shoulders, in the quick pace of their footsteps.

They exit into the overcast London day, brisk breeze sweeping across Shiro's cheeks so he shivers despite himself. His jacket is still in his office, he recalls dully, but Keith is close and radiating heat and he presses closer, unable to find himself caring as Keith whispers, "Ready?" into his hair.

"Yes," he says, voice stronger than before, and Keith counts _three two one_ as he holds eye contact with Shiro and the world falls away around them, Keith his only anchor and landmark.

They stumble into the apartment, Keith helping him settle onto the couch, pulling off shoes, his tie, his belt, before draping a blanket over him. Keith stands as though to leave, but panic spikes sharply through Shiro and he reaches up to grab Keith's arm, blanket pooling from his shoulders.

"Stay. Please."

Keith's eyes go wide before they go gentle, and he nods wordlessly before sitting down onto the couch. It's barely wide enough for Shiro, let alone both of them, but Keith tucks himself back against a corner and Shiro leans into him, settled between his legs and head and back tipped back against Keith's chest.

"You should sleep," Keith murmurs, and Shiro hums. If he turns his head to the side just a bit, he can just hear Keith's heartbeat. He can certainly feel it, just offset from his own.

He's alive. They're both alive.

There's salvation in the steady constant of Keith's pulse, and sleep finds Shiro more easily than it has in years.

 

\---

 

Shiro wakes slowly, surrounded by warmth.

The room is dark, dimly lit by a few scattered candles floating in the corners of the room. The curtains are drawn, a few slivers of orange light from streetlamps stealing into the room to pool onto the hardwood floor.

Red is dozing on a perch, standing on a single foot with one eye cracked open lazily to stare at him judgmentally before she gives a tiny _hoot_ and fluffs her feathers, closing both eyes again.

There’s the sound of another person’s breath in his ears, steady and calming.

 _Keith_.

Everything comes rushing back, and he can’t help the sharp inhale that escapes him. Instead of blind panic consuming him, he feels Keith’s arms fold loosely over his chest, quieting the turmoil curling like acrid smoke inside of him.

“Hey,” Keith says, low in the darkness. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, surprised to find he’s not lying. He pauses. “Thank you, for staying.”

“Anytime, Shiro.” The conviction in Keith’s voice is so tangible Shiro could reach out and hold it in his hands, more certain than anything he’s known in weeks.

_“I’m right here, Shiro.”_

There’s a lump in his throat and suddenly, it’s overwhelming. Keith is solid and forgiving and so, so present, even as Shiro chases ghosts of the past, threatening to become one himself.

“I’m sorry.” He sits up sharply, feeling Keith’s arms fall away even as he wants nothing more than to leave them wrapped around himself. The blanket pools into his lap, and the cold of the apartment seeps into him, leaving him to shiver.

The chill makes it easier for him to stand, unwilling to look back at Keith.

“Shiro?”

He deserves so much more, more than Shiro thinks he can give him.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and he doesn’t know what he means it for.

He hears the couch creak under Keith’s weight, before a hand comes to rest on his shoulder and he leans unbidden into it.

This. This is them, more them than anything that’s happened in the past few months. Keith’s hand anchors him firmly to the present and a past untouched by Zarkon’s darkness, to simpler days when staying awake in Professor Binns’ class and Quidditch losses were their greatest grievances.

Those days are long gone, and Shiro’s not sure he isn’t himself.

Shiro turns back, unable to see Keith’s face in the dark, and can just faintly make out the outline of tousled hair.

He shudders. It’s too close to the hallucinations hours in the cell had wreaked on him, morphing shadows into familiar shapes.

He’s twenty-four and afraid of the dark, and everything it holds.

“ _Incendio._ ” He points his wand at the fireplace, and the merry ball of fire that shoots out of the tip into the hearth of firewood lights up the room, warm and inviting. He takes in a breath, looking back at Keith to see the sadness across his face.

Fuck, it hurts. Anger surges up inside of him, insidious and despairing. This isn’t right. They’re supposed to be young and reckless and invincible but instead he’s a mere shadow of himself, neither whole in body nor spirit.

He makes to pull away from Keith, but finds Keith’s grip suddenly tight around his arm and he almost stumbles.

“Shiro.” Keith’s voice is full of some emotion that Shiro can’t quite pinpoint. “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

It knocks him sideways, leaves him in pieces across the floor as he looks back. Keith’s eyes are like amethyst fire in the flickering light and it leaves him gutted and breathless all at once.

He swallows, his next words heavy in the air. “Is there anywhere you wouldn’t?”

“No.” Keith’s answer settles into his chest, weighs him down like ballast on a ship in rocky seas, and he _breathes_.

Slowly, he pulls his arm from Keith’s hand, watching as Keith’s face falls before he reaches back out and grabs Keith’s hand.

Keith’s head flies up, looking at him in wonder.

“I’m a mess, Keith. I’m afraid of the dark.” He smiles crookedly. “Can we go to the roof?”

Keith nods, and Shiro holds his hand as he closes his eyes, pictures the slope of the roof under the sky, the shingles against his feet, and the world falls away.

Outside, the stars are bright, and it’s so cold his teeth hurt when he inhales.

The rolling hills are ethereal in the moonlight, in stark contrast to the street in front of their apartment building, and he settles onto the roof, Keith stretching out next to him.

For a while, it’s nothing but the sky above their heads, their breaths tiny puffs in the evening air. A sliver of the moon hangs in the sky.

“It wasn’t Zarkon,” he says, and he doesn’t have to say anything else for them to both know he’s referring to his arm. “They call her Haggar. I don’t know what her name actually is.”

His left hand curls into a fist, but the ring around his finger bites cold into his flesh and keeps him honest. “What do you know about her?”

“Not much,” Keith says, sitting up next to him. “Enough to know that Zarkon might be orchestrating terrible things, but he wouldn’t have gotten far without her.”

Shiro smiles grimly. “She’s a genius. Zarkon’s best researcher, and his most trusted confidant.”

He looks away. “She’s the reason I thought I wouldn’t make it out alive.”

Keith inhales sharply, a small, pained noise as Shiro continues.

“I thought it was just the fighting. They would pit us against their best wizards, their cruelest interrogators. Thought taking on the Auror would teach him a few lessons about his so-called training.”

His voice goes toneless, clinical. “I killed when I was there, Keith. I wasn’t under Imperius. I fought as hard as I could to stay alive, and I watched witches and wizards die by my own hands. I’ve used Unforgiveable curses. I was their best.”

Official pardon or not, he can’t, won’t turn to see the look on Keith’s face. Neither judgment nor comfort will help him here, and the imagined pallor of Keith’s face will only drive home what he is now.

_Monster._

“Then one day, the witch came to see me. ‘Champion,’ she called me. ‘I’ve got a reward for you.’”

The words are ashes in his mouth.

“She took me aside into a room after another fight - “ and he daren’t say he won, not when he can still remember the rage in the other Dark wizard’s eyes even as he gurgled on his own blood. “ – and she – “

His breath is shallow and staccato, and Keith tenses beside him.

“She took me apart, Keith. She said it was for a greater _good –_ “ he can _hardly fucking breathe_ “ – and she gave me a new one, said it would make me stronger, make me better, let me live.”

The air is freezing, but he’s colder inside than he’s ever felt in his life.

“She was curious, about whether someone’s own magical energy could be imbued into inanimate objects under the right conditions,” he breathes out, acerbic and biting. “She was right.”

He lets a few beats of silence pass before he closes his eyes against the sky.

“I know it was stupid, about the arm earlier.”

“What about the arm,” Keith says, confusion creeping into his voice even as Shiro turns away.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Shiro says, and bitterness rolls hollow through his chest. “That I should take it. That it’s a good idea, because we need all the power we can get.”

“Shiro.” Keith’s brow furrows.

“I know I should.”

Keith slams his hands into the shingles and shoots upright, twisting to his side to look at Shiro in equal parts fury and upset, and the sight sends something prickling through Shiro and the air is frigid as he breathes in and the world is just Keith, fiery and breathtaking against the constellations at his back.

“Why do you think you should?” he demands.

“Look at me, Keith. I’ve got one fucking arm.” Guilt flashes clear as day across Keith’s face, but it vanishes before Shiro can question it and Keith is bearing down on him with his words.

“I’m looking, and I still don’t fucking get it.” He leans down, breath like dragonfire smoking on the air, eyes flashing. “You _lived_ , Shiro, and it wasn’t pretty, but you did what any other person would have done to survive. You only need that arm if _you_ think you do, Shiro. You’re still the best wizard I know, you’re still the _best_ person I know, and as far as I can tell Haggar didn’t take that from you, unless you let her. Did she?”

Something roars up inside of him, wanting to retaliate, to push Keith down against the roof so he can see exactly what he becomes, but he blinks and Keith, _Keith_ is looking at him like he’s still all the things he once was.

Maybe, impossibly, he still is.

“I know you’ve killed, Shiro,” and Keith’s voice seems to reverberate in his chest with how closely they’re pressed together. “And I know you’ve suffered. I don’t know that I’ll ever understand completely, Shiro, but I’m here, I’m looking, and I still _see you._ You still spend way too much time doing paperwork and you still get pissed off when someone messes up whatever stupid order your things are in on your desk.”

A laugh peals out of him unexpectedly, eyes suddenly hot with tears even as the first real smile in ages pulls at his cheeks.

“It doesn’t matter to me what other people think. I want you to know I’m not fucking leaving.” Keith is so close, like proximity will impress his words into Shiro’s very being, and that sadness, that sadness, it’s still over him and Shiro doesn’t know where it’s come from so suddenly. “I’ve changed too, Shiro. I get to be here, as much as you were for me. So that arm? Until you tell me you want it, you don’t need it.”

He sits up, slowly, Keith pulling back as though he’s only just noticed how little space there was between the two of them.

“Keith.”

He can’t stop himself from reaching out, hugging a shocked Keith to himself, breathing out slowly so he doesn’t just burst straight into tears and start sobbing as he murmurs _thank you_ into Keith’s hair.

Even so, he feels light.

“I’m taking the arm,” he says suddenly, and Keith looks back at him sharply, retort on his lips before Shiro shakes his head. “It’s not because I don’t feel whole without it.”

He grins ferally, teeth flashing. “I want to see the look on Haggar’s face when I take her down with it.”

Keith laughs darkly, and something sharpens inside of Shiro, the shared fire of a common goal snapping something back into place between them on this rooftop under the sky.

They’re on a mission, and they’re going to take down the Galra.

Somewhere in the distance, he hears the call of a great horned owl against the distant roar of crashing waves, and he closes his eyes. Keith is steady next to him, arm still wrapped around his shoulders, ever present, ever _there_.

“This isn't exactly slow, is it,” he mutters onto the brisk evening breeze.

“We were Seekers, Shiro. When have we ever been good at slow?” The mirth in Keith’s voice is like a balm to his soul as Shiro laughs so loud and full the wind snatches it up and carries it off into the sky.

“Shiro.” Keith’s not looking at him, but it sinks deep into his lovelorn soul anyways. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“I am, too,” and he means it, he means it.

Maybe they really can just be Keith and Shiro first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from “monster 2.0” by Jacob Banks.


	3. not gonna tell you that i’m over it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro, Keith, and an unpleasant reminder that picking up where they left off is not as simple as it seems.
> 
> Keith’s not making it any easier on Shiro when a mission goes sideways.  
> 
>
>> His entire year in the cells, he spent every day dreaming of seeing Keith’s face again. Not once, not once did he even contemplate Keith’s mortality.  
> Keith could have died while he was gone, and the sight of it staggers him.  
> “Keith,” he tries to say, but it comes out threadbare and worn. “Keith, what happened?”  
> 

Getting the arm is every bit the nightmare he expects. It hurts, and it hurts in all the ways it possibly can, striking fear into him and ripping pulling _tearing_ from him in some deep-seated way that draws so deep he thinks he’s going to die on the table.

Hunk, grim-faced with a team of St. Mungo’s healers behind him, tries to calibrate the newly attached port at his shoulder to resonate with his own magic, distress creasing his forehead.

He shouts, eyes open but unseeing because he feels full and overloaded and he’s going to fly apart. It’s too much too strong and suddenly –

Haggar dances across his spotting vision, her gaunt face and indifferent expression suddenly before him. She seems to speak from all around him, a nightmare’s echo chamber in his own head.

_“Champion. You are strong. But I can make you stronger.”_

_No._

She vanishes, leaving him alone in unending, cold light.

Another silhouetted figure slinks out of the fog, devil-horned with upswept hair.

It’s unadulterated terror that strikes him now, and he steps back involuntarily with a gasp on his lips.

“As long as you live, Champion, I will never be gone.”

His voice is smooth, clearer than Haggar’s and it’s like he’s right next to him, and it wrings terror from every inch of Shiro’s being even as he leans forward slightly, appraising Shiro with a leer from his one good eye, the other a crimson mechanical mockery rolling madly in its socket.

“You were great once, and you could be again.”

The next whisper seeps into every fiber of his being, and Shiro almost screams.

“You will return to us, because you no longer belong in the world of all that is good and great.”

And then –

Light.

It’s warm, all encompassing, and it draws him towards it.

There’s no pull, but Shiro feels himself compelled, drawn to a magic that bolsters instead of drains, one that steeps warm into his being and lends him strength.

He – moves. Shifts, and all that is dark is still there but it seems smaller, less insurmountable.

He can do this. The magic tapers off suddenly as he takes a breath and he grinds his teeth because he is panicking over his own power when it’s his, it’s _his_ , and it will never belong to anyone else ever again.

His hand is warm.

There’s a vice grip around it and when he blinks, the whiteness in his vision starts to dissipate like mist under the rising sun.

Keith.

Allura is looking at Keith sharply, like she’s seeing someone else in his place, even as she holds her wand steady over Shiro’s arm, a slender thread of magic still connecting her wand to his new prosthetic, but Keith smiles and everything else is insignificant in his golden brilliance.

He blinks, and the halo is gone.

“Is it over?” he says breathlessly, finally daring to look down at his arm. It floats. It pulses with blue magic and there’s a thin line of runes on his inner arm, vague memories recognizing characters like _strength_ and _endurance_ written and – is that a crystal? It glows, pulses with his heartbeat, clearly imbued with magic.

Allura smiles weakly. “Family heirloom. I haven’t needed it in a long time, but I think you needed it more than I did.”

It stuns him, because Allura rarely talks about her family but she doesn’t need to, in the way her eyes go sad but fiercely proud whenever she mentions her father, to the point where she and Keith had had a near brawl in a verbal misstep back in their earlier years.

“Allura, I can’t – “ She shoves him down firmly back onto the bed, shaking her head even as she sets her wand aside.

“Please. I insist.” She looks at the healers, thanks them profusely for their assistance. Head Nurse Coran appears next to her, and Shiro can’t help the grin that skirts across his face, twirling his mustache even as he pats Allura on the shoulder.

“Your healing spells have improved leaps and bounds, my dear. The Aurors are lucky to have such skilled witches and wizards as you on the field.” He turns to Shiro, frowning, and Shiro suddenly feels fifteen again, Madam Abbott glaring him down for a dislocated shoulder.

“You,” he begins, stern, eyes nearly popping out of his head, and even Keith winces visibly next to him. “You are on strict bedrest, no magic until we know how your own abilities are going to act up with this newfangled device – “

“Hey,” Pidge says, annoyed. “I’ll have you know a lot of research went into that – “

“No matter that the daughter of the head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes has placed her seal of approval on her own invention,“ he says loudly, and Shiro’s eardrums are about to burst, he swears.

“Give a wizard some credit, will you?” Hunk grouches.

“Or that of her friends,” and the room is about to rattle from the force of Coran’s disapproval.

Then he smiles, and thumps Shiro lightly on the chest.

“We were highly concerned for you, my boy. It is good to see you.”

Shiro feels a smile break across his face, and suddenly Haggar is a footnote, a mere shadow in the stark light of his friends.

“I was worried about me too,” he says, and Keith snorts.

“I wish I could believe that more.”

“Hey, I spend some time on myself too.”

“You fall asleep doing work _and while eating_ , Shiro.”

“No, no, no, I literally said I was not signed up for the marital bickering in public you guys – “

“This isn’t public,” Keith points out, and Lance groans even as a stunned Shiro processes that Lance made another marriage reference and _Keith is totally playing along with it_.

“Ah, young love. You know, my grandfather Hieronymus Wimbelton wrote quite a novel in his day about the differences between a love potion and real, blood and tears romance.” He hums, clearly delighted about the thought. “You’ve quite a husband, Shiro. Keith here barely slept a wink while you were gone.”

It’s an unexpected jolt of strife that runs through him because Coran clearly isn’t just talking about just now.

He tightens his grip on Keith’s hand, imagined visions of Keith poring over a bulletin board of sightings, clippings, anything to find Shiro in the dead of night going through his mind.

He doesn’t need a mission to know Keith’s heart is too big, too precious for his own good.

“Yeah, he is a catch, isn’t he?” Shiro says breathlessly, and Keith’s eyes meet him with a rare delight that makes the floor drop out from under him, the suddenly somber air lifting. Shiro crooks a grin. “A bit grumpy, though.”

“Hey,” Keith says, but there’s no real heat in his words. “Warranty’s out on you, old-timer. You take afternoon _naps_ now.”

The howls of laughter echo all the way through to the owls’ roosts.

 

\---

 

Shiro finds Keith staring into space when he comes out of the shower that night, long hair still damp and half-forgotten towel in his lap.

Some part of him is wracked by the sight, and he finds himself dreading the thought of Keith staring sightlessly into space over the past year.

His gaze suddenly lands on Shiro, and the momentary bewilderment and doubt that flashes across his face lurches sorrow through Shiro, even as his expression smooths into something neutral.

Wordlessly, he steps across the floor towards Keith, watching, waiting for a sign to stop. It never comes.

Keith watches him as he moves, wary as their first night; there’s just space enough for Shiro to sit beside him, their arms brushing.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Keith asks, and Shiro finds himself wondering if Keith ever sounded like he wasn’t spent to the marrow.

“Yeah,” he says, impulse seizing him. “I’m about to.”

And then he tucks his legs onto the couch away from the ice-cold hardwood, leans his head flush against Keith’s shoulder, and yawns exaggeratedly.

“You have a bed,” Keith says pointedly, and it might have sounded like a protest if not for the way Keith tips his head against Shiro’s.

“You’re free to take it. I like it here.” As it stands, he can’t quite help the tension that rips through him suddenly, because Keith doesn’t have to stay.

But a breath leaves Keith like relief’s been punched from him, and Shiro can’t help a self-satisfied smirk when Keith doesn’t move, just slowly, slowly melts against him, the stress of the day seeping out of him.

The couch is tiny and there’s barely room for Keith as is, but he still finds himself sinking into sleep before he quite realizes it, Keith’s breathing evening out as he drifts.

His nightmares that night still come, but they meld into softer dreamscapes, falling away to the quiet of Hogwarts’ evenings and quiet rough laughter on the air behind him.

He wakes to the sound of Keith’s quiet snoring in the darkness, sighs before closing his eyes, and sleeps again.

There’s a crick in his neck the next morning, but waking to the sight of Keith tucked against him and drooling makes it worthwhile even as it nearly derails all his best-laid plans.

 

\---

 

They’d been careful. There’s no rush to complete infiltration without a definitive consequence, for better or for worse.

Allura seems more shadowed by the day, but shakes her head when Keith drops by.

“It’s nothing. Better to be safe than dead.”

So they take their time. They’re prepared, meticulous, two more weeks of gathering information, another two weeks of planning, refining. It’s supposed to be easy in, easy out.

Shiro learns how to breathe in Keith’s orbit, and no one is the wiser.

 

\---

 

It’s anything but a routine mission.

Shiro’s standing by, shadowed in the trees and fighting every instinct screaming at him to brute force his way in when a dozen windows shatter out the side with a burst of purple flame. There’s shouting, enraged and soul-shakingly wounded.

Keith.

Another shout, this time Pidge. _“Reducto!”_

It’s all he needs to come tearing down from his post, heart in his throat and something wild singing in his blood.

Just as he reaches the edge of the treeline, Keith stumbles out of the warehouse (wrong wrong _wrong_ says Shiro’s mind). He shoves Lance ahead of him, bellowing, “Go!”

But then his eyes land on Shiro, and the mix of shock panic _fear_ that darts across his face nearly brings Shiro to the ground.

Shiro’s by his side before he even realizes it himself, wand at the ready and looking all about for their would-be attackers _anything to wipe that look off Keith’s face_ but Keith finally pushes clumsily at him, Pidge and Hunk shouting at them as they blast through the side of the warehouse.

They’re running, breathing ragged as they reach the tree-line where Shiro was stationed and keep going, going, Keith pushing insistently at Shiro’s back before the whole clearing goes unnaturally silent.

Hunk whips around, digs his heels into the earth and crouches low before he roars _“Protego!”_ even as Keith drags them heedlessly to the ground right when the woods flash into stark monochrome, skeletal trees seared into his vision before he hits the soil.

It’s impressive, how neatly they work together as a team when even on graduation they were half at each other’s throats, and Shiro would comment if not for the remnants of concussive blast that shudder through Hunk’s shield. It holds, doesn’t quite stop the sound from rolling over Shiro’s ears, ringing tinnitus that doesn’t end. Pidge says something to his right, her voice metallic and oddly pitched through the damaged hum of his ears. All he knows is Keith pressed tight against him, over him, shelter against the explosion.

And suddenly, it’s like there’s a vacuum. Shiro catches sight of a sliver of glass out of the corner of his eye, and absurdly, it seems to float to a slow, shuddering stop before all the debris and shrapnel in the air collapses back into the clearing into pinprick of nothingness.

Silence, save for their breathing and the creak of an old pine in the wind.

Shiro pulls out his wand, whispers a brief healing charm towards his ears, and the ringing fades. The others follow quickly.

“What the fuck was that,” Lance says, eloquent as ever in the face of near-death. His robes are muddied and torn through, eyes blazing as he stands.

Keith rises, a tremble in his hands that’s not quite masked by the swiftness of his movement.

“It’s gone,” he says, relief or grief dragging rough in his voice as they numbly survey the empty clearing amidst the woods. He clears his throat, voice going abruptly devoid of all emotion. “Pidge? Did you get anything?”

It’s so shockingly unaffected that Shiro takes a moment to look at Keith, but he can barely make out anything beyond vague shapes and contrasts.

Pidge grins despite herself, bright in the relative darkness. “O fearless leader, what do you take me for?”

She rattles something out of his sight, a tiny silken pouch that sounds like it holds ten times its size in bricks, and Hunk heaves a sigh of relief, before irritation weaves into his voice.

“You know, I thought they said missions were going to get easier? Not that I’m complaining about getting these every once in a while, but man, it’s starting to not be every once in a while and this is really, really suspicious and the _paperwork_ , Iverson always wants more the worse it is and I already don’t even have time to finish up the last couple reports from the war – “

“Hunk,” Keith says, and the other wizard instantly quiets. Shiro can almost hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. “Everyone, sound off. Any injuries?”

“Just my pride,” Lance mutters. “I should have taken the shot on that patrolling wizard.”

“Good here. I think I should get back and log all of this, though.” There’s a small _snap_ and Shiro can only presume that the evidence she’s got is safely stowed away.

“I’m fine,” Shiro says simply, and tries not to sound dejected by not adding _because I wasn’t in there_.

He clenches his fists, the sensation of a second hand still somewhat jarring.

“I’m good. I might need to practice that charm a bit more, though, there are probably ways I could support it. Maybe staggering multiple layers to break up the incoming force,” Hunk hums thoughtfully, and Keith sighs.

“Alright. Everyone, to headquarters.” He frowns. “Make sure we’re not followed on the last leg, after the Portkey.”

Lance salutes lazily, a swish of robes just visible in the gaps of the shadows of the trees. “We know the drill. Question each other on arrival, keep close, take a different route. You worry too much. Zarkon’s gone. Also, at some point, I’m gonna run out of stupid inside jokes no one else knows, and then we’re gonna have to resort to the _really_ personal stuff, like the mole on my – ”

“What, you mean you can’t come up with another friendly encounter in the Forbidden Forest we can interrogate each other about? That place was like our second home.”

“Just needed a kitchen, honestly, some of the stuff out there made for prime ingredients. Although, that one mushroom – “

“There are other Dark wizards besides Zarkon.” Keith’s voice seems to emanate out of the shadows, and there’s a brief moment of unease. “Come on. Let’s get back. It’s not safe out here.”

He makes it all of three steps forward before he nearly staggers, hissing, but Pidge is on Keith before Shiro knows it, all joking flung aside. Her hands are steadying him, voice brittle when she goes, “You. Where.”

Keith breathes in and it sounds like a snarl, but he answers her curtly. “Ribs. Grazed.”

“For Merlin’s sake, Keith, just _once_ – “ Alarm surges through Shiro, because _just once?_ How many?

How many was he not there for?

“We’ve had worse.”

“Worse isn’t better, Keith.”

“I’m not trying, Pidge.” There’s an edge to Keith’s voice, unfinished and jagged.

“Then start, because believe it or not I’m done with casualties for a lifetime. I know you’ve been alone, Keith, I’m never going to forget that, but stop _choosing_ it when we’re right here.”

Keith stills so abruptly it might as well be a recoil in the face of his own words.

Pidge’s voice drops, raw and older than she is. “I’m pretty fucking sure Shiro would appreciate it. I know I would.”

This is a conversation too intimate for his ears, but he can’t help but drink in what little information he can gather, because there is a file on his desk for each of them, but they’re stark, concise reminders that he’s irrevocably lost time with his friends.

He’s the outsider now.

It’s testament to Pidge that Keith neither argues nor pulls away, instead finding his voice and what little heat he can muster. “I’m not going to waste Allura’s time with this.”

“Then spend mine,” Shiro says suddenly.

“Shiro.”

“I can lend a hand, believe it or not,” and the silence falls so flat that he backpedals. “That was supposed to be a joke.”

“Bad one,” Lance says weakly, before snapping back to action. “We can handle the paperwork. Keith’s always too concise, anyways, Allura keeps returning his reports to him for additional detail.”

“We don’t need to know the damn color of something all the time,” he retorts, exasperation coloring his voice.

“Keith. Let me take care of you. Please.”

“I can handle myself, Shiro.” Keith’s tall and proud even in the darkness, and Shiro can almost sense the way the lion inside him rears its prideful head.

“I know you can.” His voice is soft, placating. “I’m asking for my sake.”

It’s manipulative. He knows Keith has trouble turning him down on the best of days, and he’s pulling at the shreds of Keith’s bleeding heart as much as he can.

There’s a collective breath held, as Keith stands rigid and silent.

“Okay,” he says finally, and the atmosphere lifts almost audibly. “Pidge, Hunk, I’m expecting a full report on what you found tonight. Make sure it’s recorded and stored safely. Lance, finalize the report and deliver it discreetly. Don’t let anyone but Allura know.”

A beat of silence. “You don’t think… ?” Lance begins, uneasy, but Keith is already brushing past him roughly to retrieve the Portkey from the gnarled roots of a tree, a massive half of a dragon’s eggshell thankfully intact.

“Let’s go.”

Six hands gather onto its surface, and any further questions are lost to the careening sensation in Shiro’s gut.

They land a few streets from the entrance of the Ministry, in an alleyway smelling strongly of cat urine, and Hunk leans over a sewer and heaves what remains of his dinner after the first trip.

“I will never get used to that,” he says, wiping his mouth and still a touch green-tinged. “I hate Portkeys.”

Lance pats him on the back comfortingly before making a shooing motion at Keith and Shiro.

“I know, I know. Good job tonight.” Keith’s seriousness eases just slightly, almost affectionate. “All of you.”

“Aw, he loves us.”

“Get back safe, lovebirds.” A few half-hearted farewells later, and Shiro’s alone with Keith before he knows it.

Keith is almost ghost-pale now that he can see him somewhat better in the orange light reflecting off the asphalt, trembling even as he stands.

“Let’s go home,” Shiro says, and the bereft look in Keith’s eyes goes wistful.

“Yeah,” he says, taking Shiro by his new arm even as he looks back at him. “Home.”

The twisting sensation in Shiro’s gut has nothing to do with Apparating.

 

\---

 

He expects more of a fight, if he’s going to be honest.

Instead Keith merely grunts when Shiro hauls him onto the bed, blinking tired and disgruntled, holding himself gingerly. His fingers linger for a heartbeat on Shiro’s shirt before dropping to fist in the bedding, looking pointedly away towards the ground.

There’s a knife twisting in Shiro’s gut at how his fingers clench, shaking, like the linen under his hands is the very scaffold of his being and he’ll go to pieces without it.

“The sheets will be dirty.” Keith’s rigid, leery, like he doesn’t belong in this place, a look so familiar and alien at once Shiro feels offbeat. It’s the first hint of a Keith he once knew, the one that would strike first and ask questions later.

“We can wash them. It’ll be okay.”

Shiro can’t help but wonder if he’s referring to more than just the sheets, even as he bustles around, dipping into the bathroom to pull out gauze and salves, raising an eyebrow when he finds everything he needs and then some.

“It’s suspiciously well-stocked,” Shiro comments when he comes back to the room, and Keith snorts as Shiro moves around the bed, hackles still raised.

“Did you even see us during Hogwarts? I’m surprised no one died during Quidditch.”

“Wasn’t that bad. Lotor and Allura had that really bad crash once though.”

“Shiro, Madam Abbott _ran out of Skele-gro_ because of you.”

“To be fair, I think that was more Zethrid’s Beater skills than any of us.”

“Slytherin should have been capped at one Beater.”

Shiro chuckles. “That would have fed Lotor’s ego way too much.”

He’d missed this, Shiro realizes with a start. Missed the way conversation flowed easily between them, when their words were some middle ground between stilted and wrenching.

Shiro walks to the side of the bed to stand beside Keith, dragging a chair over from the side of the bed with his left hand, floating prosthetic nimbly lifting over a nightstand beside him as Keith finally drags his gaze from the floor to follow the motion.

“It’s working out pretty nicely,” Shiro admits, seeing the question on Keith’s face. He breaks eye contact long enough to set the bandages onto the small table. “I still overshoot once in a while, but I’ll take it. It’s strong.”

“Have you fought with it yet?”

Shiro shakes his head, and they fall quiet as the air changes between them. Keith stares back at him, unblinking, his right forearm pressed firmly against his left side. There’s defiance etched into every line of him, even as he straightens to regard Shiro.

“It’s not that bad.”

“Humor me.” He can’t quite keep the knife-edge of impatience borne of worry out of his voice, and he watches Keith falter, the fight trickling out of him at the sound of Shiro’s voice.

“Please.” Shiro doesn’t mean for it to come out as anguished as it does, thin and barely audible.

Keith closes his eyes, and Shiro holds his breath.

“Okay.”

He lowers his forearm slowly, deliberately from his chest, and even if he doesn’t flinch Shiro can see the tautness of his shoulders, the quick intake of breath. The flash of rust-red at Keith’s side leaves Shiro feeling like he’s too exposed, too honest, just left of flying apart at the sight of the wound.

“Can I help?” His voice is quiet, like something will shatter if he speaks too loudly.

Keith nods, jaw set stern against the elegant line of his neck. Shiro skitters the chair closer, and they both jump at the sound.

This close, he can see the shadows under Keith’s eyes, can see the way he holds himself in front of Shiro, tentative and unsure. Without thinking, Shiro brings a hand to Keith’s face, and maybe Keith draws in a slow breath as they look at each other.

“Sorry,” Shiro whispers. “I just – Keith, I should have been in there.”

“Quit apologizing,” Keith retorts, just as hushed. “I asked you to stay outside, Shiro.”

They’re so _close_.

Without speaking, Shiro takes his hands and pulls the tie from Keith’s neck with care. His fingers move to Keith’s shirt, unbuttoning with quick efficiency, focus drifting from Keith’s face to the white cotton. There’s fine bits of dirt and roots clinging to it still, but it’s surprisingly crisp despite the blood and earth and something about that hangs heavy in his heart.

When he finally pulls Keith’s shirt from his shoulders, his heart stops.

The wound isn’t bad – it’s a glancing blow, about a hand’s width across Keith’s left side, shallow and oozing red sluggishly. It looks painful and it needs cleaning, especially after that dive they took into the ground, but that’s not what catches his eye first, despite the shocking crimson that’s been smeared about Keith’s skin like gory watercolor.

There’s a scar, colossal and jagged, from the junction of Keith’s neck and shoulder down across his collarbone to his chest. It’s like someone tried to rent him in half, and it turns Shiro upside down and sideways in its devastation.

His entire year in the cells, he spent every day dreaming of seeing Keith’s face again. Not once, not _once_ did he even contemplate Keith’s mortality.

Keith could have died while he was gone, and the sight of it staggers him.

“Keith,” he tries to say, but it comes out threadbare and worn. “Keith, what happened?”

Keith shakes his head, tries to back away, face pale and gaunt and a denial clear as day across his features, but the more Shiro looks the more he sees. There are scars he knows, and one two _six_ too many he doesn’t recognize.

They’re in places Shiro’s overlaid in his own mind as categories like _target, quick kill, disable_ from his time in the hands of the Galra. Some are clean, others are jagged, meant to hurt. There’s a starburst splashed pale just visible above the junction of his left hip, most of it hidden by his pants.

Not all of these were meant to be deadly.

Keith’s body is a battleground, and when Shiro finally drags his gaze up to Keith’s stunned face he’s starkly reminded that he’s the one who laid another casualty across it.

He doesn’t have the heart nor the right to ask more.

He takes a breath and it sounds like a sob, his fingers clenched in the sheets on either side of Keith’s knees. It’s nothing new, nothing surprising – the life of an Auror was never meant to be their own.

But it’s one thing to know they’ve signed their lives away for the sake of others and another to see it written all over Keith’s being, each scrawl another contract with death narrowly avoided.

He’d very nearly signed Keith’s for him.

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, and Shiro can’t take it as he curls his head down towards his chest, ashamed. “Shiro, look at me.”

Vision blurring with hot tears, Shiro brings his head up slowly, every nerve ending raw and sparking.

Keith’s still bleeding, but he’s leaned forward into Shiro’s space like he’s made of ember, fierce and burning bright.

“None of this was your fault,” Keith says, with so much fervor Shiro blinks away the tears and looks at him in disbelief. “Not one.”

It’s a wonder, how Keith manages to read him without a single word exchanged. He takes Shiro’s left wrist in his, brings it to the lightning bolt etched down the right side of his chest, and the sensation of the dip where the wound starts under his hands nearly has Shiro keening.

“Not this.”

He cups it to his own face even as his eyes bore into Shiro’s. “Nor this.”

Shiro almost recoils on contact, looks away with anger and guilt swirling eddies in his chest. “You’re wrong, Keith.”

Keith’s left hand claps over his right, sensation tingling up his arm.

“This was my fault, then,” he breathes, and it’d be simple rhetoric if not for the way he wavers.

“No,” Shiro says, vehement. “Keith, _no_.”

“I hurt you, Shiro.” Keith is plaintive, wracked with remorse.

“You saved me, Keith. You _saved_ me, please, please believe me.”

“Then why won’t you believe me?”

He shakes his head viciously, even as Keith starts to object. “It’s not the same, Keith. It’s not.”

They fall silent, breathing like they’re fresh off a fight. Rivulets of blood are starting to course down Keith’s side, and numbly, Shiro moves to grab gauze to wipe the crimson trails away, gently pressing around the wound even as Keith grits his teeth.

His voice curls out of the quiet between them.

“I’d do it again,” Keith says fiercely, like it’s borne of somewhere deep in his soul and it’s unbearable to consider. “As many times as it takes, Shiro.”

He catches Shiro’s arm before he can dab at the wound again, locks eyes with Shiro so he has to steady himself, lest he light afire.

“You’re my best friend,” he says, softer, heedless of how hope shrinks back in Shiro’s chest, and his voice cracks. “I can’t lose you.”

Hands quaking, he presses fresh gauze to Keith’s side, needing to feel the solid barrel of his chest warm under them. Keith’s breaths come quick and shallow, like he’s staving off panic, a worst nightmare come to life.

He can’t help but feel like he’s missing something.

“I’m right here,” Shiro says, tries to impress all his existence into the words as he unwinds a roll of bandages, brings it around Keith’s ribcage and the arch of his back. “I will never leave you.”

“You can’t promise that,” Keith says, and the tragedy is in the truth of it all.

Throat tight, Shiro finishes dressing the wound and moves to stand.

“Take the bed, you need it.”

But as he turns, he feels Keith grab at his arm, a little desperately.

“Stay,” he says, echoing Shiro’s words from mere nights before. “Please.”

He sinks back onto the mattress, breathless as he looks back at Keith.

This is all he ever wanted, in all the ways he never saw it coming.

“Please,” Keith says again, and Shiro finds himself lowering to the bed, searching out a pillow before he realizes, pulling the covers back.

Keith stands, and for a heart-stopping moment he thinks Keith will leave, but instead he shrugs on an oversized shirt, before tentatively pulling back the covers to lie next to Shiro.

As always, Keith undoes all his expectations, turns to face him instead of looking away.

They’re so close.

Shiro reaches up to brush a stray lock out of Keith’s face, nostalgia flitting through him.

“I thought you died,” Keith says suddenly, and Shiro wants to gather all the hurt in him and tear it to shreds. “I never let myself believe it, but that whole year I kept wondering if you had.”

“I thought I killed you.” He watches the furrow in Keith’s brow, moves to soothe it with his thumb and eases when Keith doesn’t push his hand away, just continues to stare back intensely.

“I’m alive,” Keith says. “You’ve never hurt me, Shiro.”

_But I have. And I will._

“You saved me,” Shiro says, and no words of gratitude are enough to say all he means. He never wants to see Keith like that again, literal inches from death, shouting out so close yet so far.

“We saved each other,” Keith says, and his hand makes its way to the space between their bodies, curled against the sheets. His eyes rove across Shiro’s face, as though memorizing it even as Shiro’s mind stutters at Keith’s words.

Drowsy, uninhibited now that Keith’s been treated, he finds enough courage to place his hand over Keith’s, tamping down viciously on a warm spark that quickly turns into fireworks in his chest when Keith doesn’t move away, hardly moving as they stare at each other.

There’s something still so rattled in Keith’s expression, even as his eyes flutter closed and his breathing evens out.

 

\---

 

The bed is infinitely better than the couch for Shiro’s peace of mind.

He sleeps without nightmares for the first time in years, never quite fully asleep nor fully awake, drifting in and out with the faint awareness of Keith close safe _breathing_ in his proximity.

Sometime during the night, Keith curls into him, nestled against his chest and sheets tangled about their legs. Groggily he wakes, readjusts just enough to fling an arm around Keith, just as he abruptly clutches at the sheets and whispers frantically _Shiro Shiro no no no_ into his chest.

He jerks awake then, breath catching in his throat, but Keith is still asleep, eyes screwed shut, still caught in the throes of terror even as Shiro swallows dryly and says, “I’m here. I’m here, Keith. I’m okay.”

It seems to reach Keith somehow, the crease in his forehead smoothing out as his breathing evens out while Shiro’s still got ice in his veins.

He heaves a shuddering sigh, awake enough to blink back heartbreak and huddle closer to Keith.

“What happened to you?” he whispers, fingers combing through sweat-damp hair, but Keith doesn’t stir again.

 

\---

 

They wake the next morning, red-faced and drool-encrusted, but Keith seems lighter than he’s been since this whole mess started.

Shiro doesn’t have the heart to ask about the scar.

He’s sleep-mussed and soothed edges, and Shiro covers the wild stampede of his heart with a pillow to Keith’s scandalized face.

It’s full on war, down flying everywhere and Red shreeing wildly in the background at her disturbed slumber, pillows landing on the floor, before Shiro suddenly finds himself with his arms wrapped around Keith’s waist and in a headlock under Keith’s arm, twisted away from the dressing he knows is still there.

They stop, panting, before they’re both laughing hysterically for a long, heady moment, and then something about the lightness catches them unawares, giddiness giving way to helpless, awful self-awareness as Keith’s amusement melts into breaths a little too shallow, a little too quick as he swipes an arm across his face. He draws in a long shuddering inhale, hiccupping wetly, arms withdrawing from Shiro even as Shiro chases.

“I won’t leave you,” Shiro says, on the brink of tears himself, and Keith’s hands on his forearms grip almost tight enough to bruise. “I will never leave you willingly.”

The morning sun spills across the sheets as they hold each other and breathe through devastation.

They’re late to work.

“Mission,” Keith snipes at Allura as she opens her mouth to greet them. She frowns and asks no more.

Shiro grits his teeth.

He’s starting to hate that word.

 

\---

 

When the debrief is halfway over and Keith’s injury is glossed over quickly, Allura merely frowning, Keith decidedly doesn’t heave a sigh of relief. Still, Shiro notices how his shoulders drop just a touch, though rigid with residual pain. “Okay. What about those weird crystals we found?”

“Still in containment. There’s something off about them, but I’ll get to that later. They just don’t _feel_ right.”

Attention half-hearted and stilting, Shiro can’t help but keep looking over at Keith, flashes of the horrendous scar on his shoulder overlaying the deceptively steady picture before him.

There’s still so much to ask.

Shiro’s hand creeps under the table before he can stop himself, landing on Keith’s jittering knee, and he’s gratified when Keith takes it as Hunk starts to fill them in on what sort of technology the warehouse contained.

He squeezes once, Keith squeezes back, and they hold tight for the rest of the debriefing.

 

\---

 

This time it’s Shiro who stands in the doorway, looking at Keith as he sits on the couch, less hollow but more uncertain as he fidgets under Shiro’s look.

“That couch is pretty uncomfortable,” Shiro says, rolling his shoulders back exaggeratedly. “And you’re still healing.”

“Are you offering?” Keith snipes, but there’s no real anger in it.

He sounds defeated, somehow.

“Yes.”

Keith starts, but Shiro’s already turning back towards the hallway, throwing a smirk over his shoulder.

“Your loss.”

A beat of silence, before he hears, “Just trying to look out for your back issues,” and feels himself shoved forward, laughter barking out of him.

It shouldn’t be easy, falling into bed with his best friend, but Keith’s pulling a shirt over his head and Shiro has just enough presence of mind to go _oh_ at the sight before he nearly trips over himself.

This time Keith scoots until they’re back to back, and Shiro tries not to think about how decidedly _firm_ Keith is.

“Good night, Shiro.”

“Night, Keith.”

This is good. Good for both of them, because now there’s no need for clandestine check-ins in the middle of the night, and it’s an easier reason for Shiro to stomach than the truth.

He breathes, and Keith exhales, snuggling closer against his back, and just for a moment all is right in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates might be a little slower from here on out, but trust me when i say there's somewhat of an ending in sight.
> 
> find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/waxenwinged/), where i mostly just retweet amazing authors, artists, and trash memes.


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